


i'm fortunate you believe in a dream

by JHarkness



Series: the type of bullet that stuck [3]
Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, shadyche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: First and foremost, I have to say that this is dedicated to theodette on tumblr, who screamed back at me when I screamed into the void about ShadyChe and provided a lot of the inspiration for this chapter. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.I wish I could leave kudos for every single person who has left kudos and/or comments for me. Your support made this part possible. It's a lot longer than the previous two, and I promise it was worth the wait and then some. If this is the first one you're reading in the series, that's cool, too; you don't necessarily need to read the other two to make sense of this, but you'll miss some references.Anyway, comments are always appreciated! As is stopping by my askbox or shooting me a DM at daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com<3





	i'm fortunate you believe in a dream

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I have to say that this is dedicated to theodette on tumblr, who screamed back at me when I screamed into the void about ShadyChe and provided a lot of the inspiration for this chapter. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
> 
> I wish I could leave kudos for every single person who has left kudos and/or comments for me. Your support made this part possible. It's a lot longer than the previous two, and I promise it was worth the wait and then some. If this is the first one you're reading in the series, that's cool, too; you don't necessarily need to read the other two to make sense of this, but you'll miss some references. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated! As is stopping by my askbox or shooting me a DM at daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com
> 
> <3

Hernan gets the gun. For the first time in his life he’s actually glad to see Luke Cage, and finds himself equally glad to see Mariah led away by Detective Knight. It’s only when he’s left standing alone that he realizes he has nowhere to go. He can’t go to the hospital unaccompanied, can’t stay here, can’t go to the Brownstone, can’t go to Janice. So he checks in to a motel on the block where he grew up and drinks until his vision goes black.

The next few weeks are hell. Hernan doesn’t visit Mariah or attend the sentencing. He just tries to stay alive. He’s burning from the inside out, and walks past the hospital every day. The gangster part of him keeps staking the place out, looking for holes in security, lax interns with ID cards he could steal. The other part of him keeps looking over his shoulder. That part wins over, and he keeps his head down, re-familiarizing himself with his roots.

Until some idiot comes at him with a loaded gun, Hernan thinks this is just going to be his life now.

He uses the phone the man has on him to arrange a meeting, and he gets it. He’s fairly certain that was more the point of the hit; Mariah had to know he would take care of such a careless, weak thug easily. It’s almost flattering. 

“There’s nothing you can do to me,” Hernan tells Mariah when he’s across from her, and it’s true. He’s already done it all to himself.

“Did you ever love me?”

It’s her first question, and Hernan answers it honestly. “I still love you.”

“Harder than Che?”

Hernan exhales, laughs. It’s a nervous sound and he’s surprised his voice is steady when he speaks again. “See? That’s what you never understood.” He sighs again, searching for the right words, ignoring the twist of his stomach when he makes up some bullshit about Che getting over it, about himself moving on. He barely registers the words coming out of his own mouth. It isn’t all a lie; he had loved Mariah, had been committed to her, had wanted to rule Harlem from the light with her. His mistake had been thinking he didn’t feel more for Che than friendship. Because all it took was Che walking back into Hernan’s life--and then leaving it by his hands--to introduce that doubt he’d been smothering for so long.

Finding out Che was alive had been like coming out of the water after almost drowning. The waves weren’t crashing over his head anymore, or dragging him down. He was coughing in the sand and that was alright for now.

Hernan stands and almost chokes looking at Mariah. It’s the worst kind of love, love lost. But he doesn’t struggle leaving the room or walking out the prison doors; he’s shedding the weight of her lies and betrayal with each step. He throws his sunglasses away in the first trash can he sees.

The next morning, Hernan walks down to the police station first thing and gets cleared by Detective Knight to visit the hospital alone. It’s a courtesy he doesn’t deserve and he’s not really sure why she gives such a gift to him. They don’t exchange any words while she hands him a pass card for the room, and they exchange few after. Hernan doesn’t say ‘thank you’ but he hopes the Detective knows he means it with all his soul when he takes the card from her.

“Now get out of my precinct.” Her voice is acid.

Hernan makes it to the front door of the hospital before turning away and running to the park across the street. Hyperventilating by the time he finds a checkers table, he lays his forehead against the concrete board and closes his eyes.

Once his heart stops beating in his throat, Hernan lifts his head back to stare at the sky. It’s shady where he is, untouched by the little warmth that the sun is providing, and he reaches into his pocket for his gloves. His fingers touch the photo he brought for Che first. He pulls both out, sliding the gloves out and zipping his jacket all the way up before holding the photo up. The Rivals in the beginning. Jaw set, he stares at it; but even if he wanted to, he can’t cry anymore. He feels a little numb until the memory of the day they took the photo starts to creep in. Smiling, Hernan brushes his thumb over Che’s face, and then rolls his eyes at his own younger self. He looks like such a  _ pendejo _ .

He guesses he never really changed.

Putting the photo back in his pocket, Hernan scrubs his face and takes a deep breath. He curls his hands into fists at his sides, digs his nails into his palms, and curses at himself a few times for being so nervous. So  _ weak _ .

He walks straight into the hospital. No one stops him on his way up to Che’s room in the ICU, which he finds a little problematic, but he isn’t complaining. The guards step closer together as soon as they see him, though. Hernan is smug as he’s ever been when he raises the card and waves it in their faces. It’s a complete front; he’s not sure he’d be able to speak if they asked him to. Fortunately, they let him through without questions after examining the card, and Hernan slides into the room before he can convince himself not to be there.

Seeing Che wounds him the same way it did the first time. He’s hooked up to innumerable machines, and his bare chest is covered in bandages and set to heal broken ribs. He has an IV, an oxygen mask. The monitor beeps slowly.

Hernan’s been shot before. That pain is nothing compared to what he feels now.

Che still looks dead. His chest barely rises and falls, but it doesn’t matter. What Hernan sees--the image is  _ burned  _ behind his eyelids--is Che against that tire, sweat and tears dripping down his face, blood starting to come out of his mouth.

He slides into the most uncomfortable chair he’s ever been in before he can fall again. Detective Knight was too professional--and too contemptuous--to laugh when she brought him before, but he wouldn’t put it past the guards out now to record him and sell it to the highest bidder. ‘How Shades Alvarez has fallen.’ It’s the mindset that keeps him from reaching for Che. He just stares long enough for his eyes to go dry.

Hernan doesn’t eat. The first nurse who comes to check Che’s vitals and administer his medications also brings him a glass of water. He’s not proud that the way he repays her is pestering her about when Che will wake up and what the extent of the damage is and what the recovery will look like, but she doesn’t seem offended. She pats him on the cheek like his mother used to and suddenly he feels like he’s five years old again, crying over a scraped knee, and it makes him  _ angry _ . He tears himself away and turns, blinking up at the ceiling to hold off the tears. She leaves him alone.

Though he’s aware his deal has a fair number of contingencies, Hernan is contemplating murder when one of the guard comes in and tells him--in a voice laced with disgust--that it’s “time to go.”

“Excuse me?”

The guard laughs. “Family only in the ICU after 4, asshole. You’re not family. So split.”

Hernan stands and squares his shoulders. “I  _ am  _ family. And if you think I’m going to leave--”

“Careful, Alvarez,” the guard says, sliding his hand to his weapon, “we’ve been instructed to use force if necessary.”

“This is bullshit!” Hernan yells. It’s loud enough to catch the attention of a doctor in the hall, and she pokes her head in. “Everything okay in here?”

“No ma’am, just explaining the rules to our  _ visitor _ . Immediate family after visiting hours only, Alvarez. Let’s go.”

The doctor’s face sets when she hears Hernan’s surname. “Yes, please exit the premises.” She leaves the room.

Hernan almost spits on the guards but decides not to. He walks all the way back to the motel. It’s late when he gets there, and he collapses on the bed, closes his eyes, and prays to a God he stopped believing in a long time ago that Che will still be alive tomorrow.

Che makes it to the next day, and the next. Hernan is there every hour he can be. It causes a lot of tension in the ICU. No one’s sure what to do with him; they know he must be important enough to get cleared by the witness protection detail--not even Janice knows her son is alive yet--but he still isn’t listed as family. Hernan wants it to have something to do with Detective Knight. It probably doesn’t, but it gives him someone to hate other than himself for a little while.

The first time they come in to change Che’s bandages, Hernan is pushed to the corner. He complains enough that they threaten to kick him out altogether, so he begrudgingly settles for watching Che’s face for any sign of movement. His attention slips to his chest, though, and he feels sick as its exposed; two gunshot wounds, three incisions of various length. Bullet removal, heart surgery, lung surgery. The third’s around his stomach. When Hernan finishes assessing the damage he really does run from the room and straight to the bathroom. He heaves the contents of his stomach out and then sits on the stall floor until he thinks the room will be empty again.

When he gets back, Hernan decides he doesn’t care who’s watching, curls into a ball on the chair, and sobs until he’s almost too exhausted to breathe. He gets a cab back to the motel.

The text day, he twines his fingers with Che’s when he gets into the room in the morning and doesn’t let go.

It takes about a week more of Che being comatose for the police department to scale back the resources they use on his protection. Instead of a rotation of two guards, they assign two officers--so young Hernan is sure they’re fresh out of the academy--with permanent night and day shifts. He learns the woman on the day shift, Erin, knows who he is the very first day she starts. She puts her hand on her holster when she spots him on the floor and is damn near close to drawing when he walks up to her.

Holding up the pass, Hernan sighs. “I’ve been cleared.”

Erin snatches the card from him and scrutinizes it. She eventually concedes and lets him pass, but her face is stony enough to rival Detective Knight. Hernan stops holding Che’s hand for a while. He speaks to him in a low voice, recounts childhood stories, and tries not to engage with Erin when he goes to get food and coffee.

The nurses and doctors have stopped being openly hostile toward Hernan. Realizing that it had been mostly his fault, he also tries to be more patient with them, and waits for reports rather than demanding them. It’s an excruciating process, but one that pays off.

“You’re here every day.”

Hernan doesn’t turn around, just shrugs while he waits his coffee. He is. The comment doesn’t warrant any special attention; you don’t have to be a detective to notice the bags under his eyes, the redness of them. The stubble he’s ignoring is darkening his cheeks, too, and the lack of decent food is contributing to a haggard appearance Hernan isn’t proud of.

“Why don’t you just sleep here?” The voice isn’t one Hernan recognizes. He tries not to curl his lip and snarl at the comment. His reply sounds forcefully polite, but he’s too tired to care.

“I don’t count as family.” Turning around, he finally looks at the nurse. The guy’s a lot younger than Hernan, but he looks just as tired. Graveyard shift, Hernan imagines, and then some. It’s almost noon. “Visiting hours only, you know, even if I’ve known him my whole life, even if he’s--” Hernan closes his mouth before he can finish:  _ my whole life _ . His bitterness turns to embarrassment as the nurse realizes what he means.

“Oh.”

Hernan makes a dismissive noise in his throat and turns back around for his coffee. When the nurse grabs his shoulder, he nearly tosses the coffee in his face. It takes concentrated effort not to react, but Hernan figures assaulting a nurse will get him kicked out pretty permanently and maybe even back in jail, so he just tenses his shoulders and hopes the guy gets the hint.

“Sorry,” the nurse says. “But I know--I know what you mean. And it sucks. It’s not right, I mean…” He trails off when Hernan shrugs his hand off.

“I don’t need your pity.” He looks down at his watch. “And I don’t have a lot of time in there as it is. So if you wouldn’t mind,” he adds pointedly, and pushes past.

He’s almost to the room when he hears, “ _ Hey _ !” and the nurse catches up to him. Hernan starts rethinking the whole ‘punching nurses’ thing, especially when the guy starts speaking again. “Hey, listen, I can get you in. At night, I mean. That pass card you have, all it does is clear you for entry since he’s a protected witness.”

Hernan is painfully aware of that.

The nurse waits for him to say something. When Hernan doesn’t, he smiles and continues, “I can get you the one they use for family.”

Narrowing his eyes, Hernan takes a sip of his coffee and looks around. The ICU is busy. He feels like his mind is moving at the same pace while is body is rooted in place, trying to figure out the nurse’s angle. “What’s in it for you?”

“Huh?”

“What do you want from  _ me _ ?”

The nurse actually looks offended. “Nothing, man. I’m just trying to help you.”

“Life never works like that.”

“It does this time.”

Hernan’s taken aback. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to look too surprised. “Do you know who I am?”

Cocking his head, the nurse scratches his cheek. “Should I? I’m Mr. Jones’ night nurse. The only reason I’m here now is… Well, you don’t care. Anyway. The reason I stopped you is to get your info. I need it to make the pass. I have a…” He pauses, and then laughs at himself. “My boyfriend works in reception. He’s seen you come in every day and mentioned it to me. I thought maybe we could help you out.”

Hernan inhales sharply when he hears the word ‘boyfriend’ so casually, and then plays it off as gratitude. He shoves past the part of himself that’s screaming this is somehow a trap, because rationally he knows it isn’t, rationally he has no reason to mistrust this guy, and pulls out his ID. His throat is tight with nerves while he waits for recognition. While he waits to lose this chance.

“Hernan Enrique Salazar Alvarez. Puerto Rican?”

“Yeah.” He takes a shaky breath.

“Cool. My boyfriend, too.”

Hernan nods but his mind is miles away. He’s thinking of what to pack, if he can just leave the motel altogether, what the hospital’s policy is on sneaking into on-call rooms to use the showers. The nurse catches on and smiles again. It’s infectiously friendly, and Hernan finds himself smiling back.

“Yeah. Alright, yeah, pick this up at reception on your way out tonight. Ask for Zeke. He’ll give you the pass, too.”

“Thanks,” Hernan breathes.

“No problem, man.” The nurse checks his own watch and deflates a little. “Damn, I’ve still got an hour. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Mmhmm,” Hernan already has his coffee to his lips and is moving toward Che’s room. He’s overwhelmed, and more or less collapses into his chair. It’s used to his shape now and he sinks pretty low into the uncomfortable form. His breakfast is as bland and questionable as he’s come to expect, but it’s the best he’s ever had.

Zeke makes good on the pass and Hernan’s home and packed up within two hours. He heads back to the hospital, nerves on fire, and up to the ICU, pass slung around his neck like a war medal. He  _ saunters  _ up to the guard, the woman he doesn’t know, and she clearly doesn’t know him; she looks confused by his smugness, and just checks his passes and lets him through.

Hernan’s entire life is in this room. He puts down his four bags, curls up in his chair, and falls asleep.

He wakes up throughout the night. Che doesn’t. Hernan stirs each time someone comes in to check on Che, although he’s rarely cognizant enough to ask questions. 

That night nurse comes in and smiles at him. He introduces himself as Damien and Hernan blearily thanks him for everything. Damien, unsurprisingly, is the kind of cheery only nurses on television are. At first Hernan is convinced it’s forced, but the more nights he spends there (after Damien starts bringing him food from home, and leaving his key card so Hernan can go shower in the intern’s lounge), he’s touched by how genuine the kid is.

“Why are you helping me?” He asks one night. He’s reading the day’s newspaper, which is full of articles about Mariah’s case, and feeling like he isn’t worthy of how kind Damien is. Damien finishes replacing Che’s IV bag and looks over at Hernan.

“If something like this happened to Zeke, I’d want someone to treat me like I mattered to him at all, too.”

Hernan laughs, hollow and low. “You don’t even know the whole story.”

Damien shakes his head. “I really don’t need to.”

Pointing at the newspaper’s front cover--an unflattering photo of Mariah next to even more unflattering text--Hernan says, “He’s in WitPro because of her.”

Nodding, Damien walks to the end of the bed, makes some checks on Che’s chart, and then goes to the door. “If you could give me one reason that matters more than you being here for him now, I’d quit my job and move to Alaska.” His mouth contorts in a half-laugh, half-smile, and Hernan responds in kind, his eyes crinkling at the corners and chest swelling. He groans when the hitch in his breath tries to turn into full-bodied crying, and Damien gives him a soft look.

“You and Zeke, man. What, Puerto Rican boys not allowed to cry?”

“Something like that.”

Damien rolls his eyes fondly. “My shift’s over early tonight. I’m off for the next week. If you need anything--” he pulls a card from his pocket and brings it over to Hernan, “call either of these numbers, alright?”

Hernan takes the card. “I don’t--”

“Don’t get emotional on me, Hernan, it’s not your style. Just take it. Let me know when he wakes up.”

Damien’s gone when Hernan he registers the  _ when _ , and it makes him feel something pretty close to hope.

“You hear that, Che?” He asks, scooting up close to the bed. He combs his fingers through Che’s hair; he’s still getting used to it, how much it’s grown, and suddenly has a thought of pulling that hair in a  _ very  _ different situation that makes him walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on his face.

Two nights later, what Hernan thought was going to be… Well, he’s not actually sure what he thought would happen. He’s fairly certain he hates himself for what he did more than Che hated him for it, but then again, Che had almost  _ died _ .

Che wakes up and all hell breaks loose. He doesn’t know where he is. And when Che is confused, he fights, and fights  _ hard _ . Hernan takes a hit to the jaw that send him staggering back to the wall. Che screams, having ripped his stitches, but proceeds to rip his IV out and try to stand.

“Che! Che!” Hernan ignores the aching in his jaw and steps forward to help the guard, nurse, and doctor who have all rushed in.

“Stop!” The guard is about to call for backup. The doctor and nurse are arguing over sedating him after he’s just come out of a coma, and Hernan is splitting his attention between three people--making sure Che doesn’t kill himself, stopping the guard from doing something stupid like tasing him, and letting the doctor put him back under. A lot of people are going to get hurt if he can’t get Che to stop.

For once, he doesn’t care how desperate he sounds. Hernan throws himself in front of Che, grabs his face, and shouts, “Darius!” He repeats the name over and over until Che comes back to himself.

“Hernan?” His eyes are still wide with panic.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’ve gotta get back in the bed, Che. You’re really hurt.”

“No shit.” Che’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “You fucking shot me, nigga.” Hernan is figuring out what his reaction to that should be when Che cries out in pain and doubles over. He helps get him settled and the doctor takes over, shouting orders as more medical professionals rush in. Hernan retreats from the room and watches from the door. He’s sweating and shaking.

“Hey honey, you okay?”

Hernan looks around. The nurse from his first night in the hospital walks up to him. She points at his cheek, smiles this tiny smile, and points to the room. “I guess he’s awake.”

Hernan’s starting to fully feel his jaw. There’s definitely a bruise blossoming. He’s surprised he didn’t lose any teeth. “It didn’t go well.”

“I’ll get some ice.”

It’s a couple hours before Hernan’s let back in. Che’s doped up on pain meds and just stares at him for a long time. Eventually, his eyes close, and Hernan jumps up, panicked that’s he’s slipping back into a coma. He runs into the hall to grab a nurse. She checks everything and assures him that everything’s fine, a knowing grin tugging at her lips. “Get some sleep,” she orders. Hernan does.

He wakes up the next morning groggy as hell. Che is already awake. Usually Hernan would go get coffee, but he leaps out of his chair instead, even though standing doesn’t bring him any closer.

There’s a long, pregnant silence, and then Che asks, “How are you here, Hernan?”

Hernan lowers his head. His smile fading, he looks out the window, the shame of it coloring his face. His chest feels hot.

Che nods. “So you snitched on Mariah.”

It wasn’t a question. Whipping his head around so fast his neck tweaks, Hernan meets Che’s eyes again and nods anyway. He rubs the sore spot on his neck.

“Hey.” Che’s voice is softer than Hernan deserves, and it makes his breath catch. Tears threaten but he holds his gaze. Gritting his teeth, he puts his hand over the bandages covering the wounds he tore in Che’s chest, braces the other one on the bed, and leans down. Che doesn’t even hesitate in reaching for his chin to move things faster, but the kiss is slow and short anyway. It’s an apology. Hernan feels like it says more than he ever could, and when he pulls away, Che is smiling.

Looking around the room and out into the hallway at every camera, every guard, every nurse and doctor on call, Che says, “I ain’t sure I didn’t die. You just kiss me?”

“Yeah, asshole, I did.”

“Mm.” Che leans back into his pillows. Hernan feels lighter, softer. Carefree. Che is still too immobile to make room for him on the bed, so Hernan pulls his chair as close as he can to the edge and leans his arms, shoulders, and head into his side gently. He looks up from his spot and watches Che’s mouth move, but really he’s listening to him breathe.

“I know why you did what you did, and I still wouldn’t change what went down between us. You did what you had to do with that crazy bitch, too, and just cause it was snitching don’t make me betraying you the way I did okay, neither. I don’t know how I’m alive but I wouldn’t be mad at you even if I wasn’t.”

Hernan snorts.

“You damn well know what I mean.” But he’s laughing, and soon Hernan is, too.

When they both go quiet, Hernan whispers, “ _ Todavía te quiero. ¿Sabes eso? _ ”

“Yeah, B, I do. Seems like you the only one ain’t know that.”

Hernan sucks his teeth. “I should have let you bleed out.”

“Yeah. Idiot.” Che slowly lifts his arm and slides his fingertips into Hernan’s hair, who can see that it hurts him to move like that. He thinks about protesting and the idea dies when he thinks that Che would probably kick his ass for it. Not that he wouldn't deserve it.

“Still,” Hernan says, his voice muffled by the sheets, “when you're better, you can kick my ass if you want.”

“There are a lot of other things I'd rather do with that ass,” Che replies immediately. Hernan grins.

“Like what?”

Che licks his lips and tightens his grip on Hernan’s head. “I'd--”

They're interrupted by a doctor coming to check on Che. Having woken up so recently, Hernan is surprised and disappointed they let him alone this long. He's also disappointed in himself when he jumps away as soon as she’s in the room.

Che doesn’t seem surprised, just resigned. He smiles weakly at the doctor. “Hey Doc, when am I getting out of here?”

The doctor does her best to hide her incredulity. “You’re lucky to be alive, let alone awake, and you’re asking when you’re getting out?”

“Well,” Che says flatly. “Yeah.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t look good. You’ll be in ICU another week at least, and at that point we’ll be able to assess if we can move you to a recovery wing. But the bullets hit your lungs, your heart. You lost a lot of blood and were out for a while. I’m surprised there wasn’t brain damage. But there’s definitely going to be permanent damage to your heart. Need me to keep going?”

Hernan feels lightheaded. He leans back in, swallows his pride, and grabs Che’s hand. He’s warm. Familiar. Che squeezes Hernan’s hand and smiles. “Bet you’re about to say sorry, huh?”

“I was leaning that direction. Che, I--”

“Don’t start that shit. I said what I said. You’re done beating yourself up about this.”

They’re lost in each other a moment. The doctor clears her throat, and Hernan blinks, leaning back in his chair. He huffs a breath. “I’m gonna get some coffee.” He doesn’t need to ask if Che wants some; he know he does, and exactly how to make it.

Hernan passes the doctor on his way back in. Che’s expression has sobered somewhat, and he explains what Hernan missed. “I asked her if you’re the only one who’s been in here. She said yeah, every day, like a little lovesick puppy.”

“Shut up.” Hernan smiles, toothy and wide.

Che stares him down. Breathless, Hernan walks back over, sits on the very edge of the mattress, takes Che’s face gently in his hands, and kisses him a few more times before he can share the rest of the news. Hernan already knows what it’s going to be, and he’s not looking forward to explaining.

He pulls back, still holding Che’s face. Che sighs. “You already know, huh?”

“Yeah.” Hernan takes a deep breath. “The cops told me I’m the only one outside of law enforcement who knows you’re alive. They haven’t even named you as a witness in the trail yet because they weren’t sure you were going to pull through. Janice...”

“Does she know what you did?”

Hernan nods, not trusting his voice just yet. Even thinking back to his confession, Janice’s face… He sniffs and bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t understand how you can’t hate me,” he murmurs finally, “Not just for this. For everything.” Despite his voice wavering, he presses on, “I let Mariah take me down a path I never wanted, all because I held onto some stupid fantasy that she wouldn’t end up like Cottonmouth, and that there was a way I could finally live out the life  _ I _ wanted. And I was scared when I realized that included you. I love you so much, Che, and it fucking terrifies me. I didn’t want to before, but I know I love you harder than I’ve ever loved  _ anybody _ .”

Che swallows. His eyes are shining when he lifts his hand and presses it against Hernan’s cheek; Hernan turns his face and kisses Che’s palm, once, and then exhales shakily.

“I mean shit, Hernan, I wanted to. But I’ve always loved you. Right ‘til the damn end.”

“You just  _ took  _ every fucked up thing I said to you and rolled with it. Let me lie to you like that without calling me out.”

“I was thinking you’d figure it out eventually.”

“What if I didn’t?”

“Everything I did was to get you back and make you the king I know you are. Even when you let that bitch walk all over you, and after the shit you said to me in the barber shop.” Che chews his lip. “I snitched cause I wanted Mariah out of my way. It wasn’t the right thing to do and I see that now. And hey, you figured it out, didn’t you?”

“Che…”

“Nigga you  _ want  _ me to be mad at you?”

Hernan coughs a laugh. Looking down, he replies, “I don’t know.”

Che ducks his head so Hernan meets his gaze again. He searches Hernan’s eyes, purses his lips, and shakes his head. “Yeah, you do. Unbelievable.” His palm turns into a fist as he punches Hernan good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Well, I ain’t, so get over it.”

Hernan’s fairly sure he won’t, but promises to give it a try.

The next week is full of constant tests and a few smaller follow-up surgeries.. Hernan is in the room almost more than Che. The good part of it is that he’s cleared to leave the ICU after that week. Che is weirdly competitive about healing quickly, which Hernan makes fun of him for, but it works out when he’s moved into a room with two beds so Hernan can stop sleeping in a chair. They’re expressly told not to move the beds together. So, once the doctor leaves the room, they push the beds as together as close as possible without interfering with all the machines and tubes hooked up to Che. It’s not ideal; Hernan never wants to stop touching Che, wants to make sure his heart is beating every second of every day. Plus, he’s wasted too much time  _ not  _ touching Che. But he does like waking up and not taking an hour to feel like his body isn’t chair-shaped.

Hernan doesn’t call Damien and gets shit for it when he gets back, but it all gets chalked up to Hernan being too overwhelmed by it all to even remember. Hernan lets that be the truth; really, he just isn’t used to friends other than Che, and hasn’t thought about Damien at all since he left. He feels a little guilty about, especially when Damien rearranges the IV bag and equipment so they can shove the beds right up next to each other, and then convinces the other nurses to let them stay that way.

There’s also a bathroom with a shower in the room. Hernan doesn’t have to keep sneaking into the intern area, and he gives Damien back the key card. “You know, there aren’t cameras in the bathrooms,” Damien tells him when he takes it back. He winks.

Hernan raises his eyebrows and tries to school the rest of his features into not looking too shocked. In Seagate, even being committed to being with Che, there was always the overwhelming pressure to be secretive and hidden. To be ashamed. Hernan’s not sure he would even be comfortable holding Che’s hand outside of the hospital room. Hurriedly he chokes out a “thanks” and makes his way back to the room.

It takes him hours to work up to telling Che about the cameras, or lack thereof. They’re in bed and Hernan’s listening to the whir of the machines, staring at the city outside, and thinking. Thinking too hard. Che makes it easy. He smirks. “That’s a good reason to get these stitches out.”

“Mm?” Hernan, one arm behind his head, turns and watches Che’s profile.

“Don’t want to tear nothin’ when I fuck you ‘til you can’t stand.”

Hernan has a hard time falling asleep that night.

A month goes by and Che’s stitches are out, he’s walking regularly, his endurance tests show significant healing in his heart and lungs--and he’s starting to get cabin fever. Hernan is, too, and he’s even able to go outside hospital grounds when he walks. He brings them food from their favorite spots, borrows some movies from Damien, and even starts looking for apartments, but it’s still not enough.

“Imma go crazy if I have to stay here much longer.” Che groans and rolls off his bed. “Have they said anything to you?”

“I know as much as you do.” Hernan doesn’t even look up. Newspaper in hand, he’s reading the first article released on Mariah’s trile. It’s defamatory--to say the least--and Hernan is disgusted by the way they talk about her. He’s trying to despise her but it’s hard to stand by anyone calling her a monster.

Che sighs deeply. He starts pacing, gets to the bathroom, and smiles. “Hernan.”

Hernan waits.

“Hernan,” Che repeats. His voice softens. “Come here.”

He’s is out of the bed without a thought, and then stops a few steps away from Che. Che looks ridiculous in the hospital-issued pajamas he’d been given; they’re too small, so the shirt looks like it’s about to rip, and the pants don’t even cover his ankles. They also show the outline of his hard dick perfectly. Hernan’s mouth goes dry. His mind starts racing as he remembers the last time they were together, really together. It had been the night before he got out of Seagate. He spent a lot of time thinking about it the year after, and then a lot of time trying  _ not  _ to think about it.

He crosses the remaining space between himself and Che and it’s like that night never ended. Che grabs his ass over his pants and pulls him into the bathroom. He slams the door and then presses Hernan against it; Hernan gives as good as he gets and nips at Che’s throat, slides his hands under his shirt, and traces the tattoos he’s had memorized for twenty years.

Hernan never worried he’d forget how to take care of Che. He knows what he likes, how he likes it. Nothing matches the familiar rush of kissing him, the long-awaited tasting of his skin again. The feeling of Che’s hands squeezing his back and his ass, nails digging in just enough that he forgets they ever stopped doing this, makes him pull his mouth away and gasp.

Che traces Hernan’s lips with his thumbs and almost  _ growls _ . He slots his thigh between Hernan’s and Hernan just goes slack, pressing into Che until he’s taking almost all his weight.

They manage to separate long enough to undress completely, and then at least make it to the shower. “Hey, you remember that time you cleared out the showers at Seagate, just so you could fuck me?” Hernan laughs breathlessly. The water’s coming down hard on his back, and he leans into it, sucking at his bottom lip when Che licks a stripe from the top of his spine to neck and then bites his earlobe.

“Ain’t never gonna forget it,” he grunts out.

Che’s hands are all over Hernan’s body. He pushes his thighs apart and slides into Hernan so slowly it burns. Hernan--one hand bracing himself on the wall, the other grasping at any skin he can reach--rocks back until he doesn’t feel empty anymore, until Che is buried so deeply inside of him it’s all Hernan can feel.

He knows what it’s like to fall apart in Che’s hands and lets himself do it. Che is pressed as close as he can be, and it feels like holding Che in his arms the first day he was out, it feels like Seagate, it feels like being sixteen and sleeping next to Che, or running from a shopkeeper and knowing Che is behind him, always behind him, ready to catch him and hold him up. It feels like kissing in that alley and kissing in his room. It feels like  _ home _ .

Hernan shatters when he comes. Che fucks him through it and then some, until Hernan is quivering under him and whimpering against the tile. “Darius,” he whines, and then Che’s coming hard, fingernails digging into Hernan’s ribs, knees threatening to buckle.

Collapsing against the shower wall, Che pulls out and then maneuvers so Hernan is facing him. They fall to the floor together--laughing because there’s hardly room for Hernan alone, let alone all of Che--and let the water run while they kiss, mouths making up for the time they lost.

They let the water go cold before getting out. He feels like he’s twenty again when his hands keep wandering to Che’s body, going over the familiar lines and curves and edges. They get dressed in the same clothes and head back into the room, Hernan cautiously and Che victoriously. There’s no one else there, just white walls and a wooden door, so Hernan says, “I never thought we’d get to do that again.”

Che goes straight for his bed. His breaths are harsher than they should be, so he sits up, breathes, and waits. Hernan watches him from where he’s leaning against the wall. He can still feel some of Che’s cum between his thighs.

“I want to get out of here, Che, I really do, but you’re clearly still recovering--”

“There ain’t nothing I need to stay here for.” Che’s chest is rising and falling normally now. “All I need is time. And I got time anywhere else.”

Hernan nods. “I’ll see if I can get them to discharge you.”

“Thanks.”

Hernan has his hand on the door when Che calls, “Hey, B.”

“Yeah?”

“You can still walk. Imma have to fix that.”

Hernan rolls his eyes and goes to find the doctor.

Che gets cleared for discharge the next day. The paperwork is more complicated since he’s in witness protection, and it takes another 36 hours to actually get out of the hospital. Hernan buys Che jeans and a sweatshirt that come off as soon as they get to the hotel the Harlem PD has chosen for Che.

Hernan has a decent amount of money saved away, even with what happened with Mariah, that he convinces Che to look for apartments with him.

“One condition.”

Hernan is laying half on top of Che, one leg slung over his waist, head on his chest. He’s drawing new tattoos with his finger over Che’s skin.

“I want to see my mom.”

Hernan’s heart seizes. A shock of pain bursts through him, and he rolls away to stare up at the ceiling. “That’s up to the PD.”

“You know what I mean. I want you to come with me.”

“Janice hates me. I think she wants to put a couple bullets in me. Or beat me to death. No matter what, I think me in the ground would be her ultimate goal.”

“She’ll be fine when she sees me.”

Hernan is unconvinced, but Detective Knight and the other officers on the case allow the visit. Che is infuriatingly calm the day she’s meant to come to the hotel. Hernan jumps each time there’s a knock on the door. Eventually, one of those knocks is the officer brining Janice in, and Hernan’s body for the first time is urging flight over fight. He grits his teeth and stays.

Janice starts sobbing immediately when she sees her son. They hold each other for a long time. Eyes burning from the effort not to cry, too, Hernan finally just lets the tears fall while he watches them. He’s silent until Janice lets go of Che and asks him, “ _ Why _ ?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He takes a shuddering breath and rubs his eyes. His voice is thick when he turns to Che. “Che--”

“Don’t you dare!” Janice doesn’t yell, but her voice has the force of a grenade behind it, and Hernan swallows.

“ _ Darius _ ,” he starts again, “Darius and I--You know what, no. No.  _ I  _ made some mistakes.  _ I _ fucking destroyed the thing I loved most cause I was scared. And somehow I got that thing back. I’m so, so sorry--” Hernan’s voice catches. “-- _ ¡Joder! _ ” He stands, just to have something to do, and smooths his shirt. When he lifts his hands they’re shaking.

“Hernan,” Darius interjects, and grabs his shoulder.

“No, you know what.” He points at Janice, whose face is covered with tears but set, hard, and pulls his shoulder away. “This is good. At least someone is acting like a fucking normal person would--” His ears ring. Janice is saying something to him but he can’t hear her; it’s like he’s underwater, and Darius and Janice are on the surface.

“Not this shit again.” Darius rolls his eyes and rocks back on his heel. He’s about to say something when instead, he grabs Hernan’s face and kisses him. Janice gasps. It’s too short for Hernan to even kiss back but when Darius pulls away, Hernan feels like it lasted forever. Everything comes into focus. He resurfaces.

They all sit down again. Janice is clutching her purse and listens intently to the part of the story Darius can share. He and Hernan are sitting pressed together shoulder to knee, but they won’t hold hands.

When Janice’s time is up and the detectives come to collect her, she hugs Darius, and then Hernan. Hernan isn’t sure she would have if Darius wasn’t there.

“Did she know?” Hernan asks when the door closes.

Darius looks tired. His eyes are glazed over and red. Hernan’s feel bruised. He rubs them with his knuckles while Darius replies, “Know what?”

“That you’re…” Hernan hates that he can’t even finish the question. But he loves the way Darius’ head moves when he talks. Loves the way his eyes say everything before he does.

“Gay? Yeah, B, she knew.” He manages to say it both casually and carefully, with pride and with the understanding that Hernan’s not there yet. “She even told me not to fall in love with you when I was fifteen. Look how well that turned out.”

“Yeah, you joined a gang, went to prison, and got shot.”

“You are such an idiot.”

“I love you, too.”

Finding an apartment is easy even though Darius isn’t actually allowed outside of the hotel room. Money opens a lot of doors. They have enough to get what they want after years of savings set aside during their days as Rivals. Hernan picks a place on Manhattan Avenue and pays the security deposit and first month’s rent in cash.

The hard part is convincing witness protection to let Darius move there. The Italians have control of Harlem with Mariah on trial, and even though Luke Cage is doing his best, the police find bodies they can trace back to Mariah weekly. And then Benjamin Donovan shows up.

He finds Hernan on his way back from the grocery store of all places. Hernan knows he doesn’t need a weapon but misses even having a knife to scare Donovan off with; he’s not in the mood for his shit, not when he has Darius waiting for him in the hotel and  _ mofongo  _ ingredients in his arms.

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk.”

Hernan sucks his teeth. “Don’t bullshit me. What did she send you for?”

“I’m not here to get anything from you. I’m here to  _ give  _ something to you.”

“If you’re supposed to be my hitman, Mariah is even more desperate that I thought.”

Donovan scoffs. “No.” He looks annoyed at the mere suggestion. Still, when he reaches inside his blazer, Hernan plants his feet and angles himself to hit back. Nothing but a slip of paper comes out of Donovan’s pocket.

“The deed to Harlem’s Paradise.”

Hernan almost drops the groceries. He takes the deed slowly, still skeptical, and opens it. It’s signed away completely. The club is his.

“Ms. Stokes asked me to tell you that you were good to her, and she wants the club to be in the same hands.”

“That crazy bitch,” Hernan breaths incredulously.

“I am sure you will be unsurprised I thought similarly. As it is,” he pulls out more documents, and, checking his watch, says dismissively, “You will need to fill out this remaining paperwork and have it sent to my office. I have an appointment. Good day.”

_ Yeah _ , Hernan thinks,  _ it is. _

Detective Knight is furious. Darius is jealous. Hernan is smug toward Knight, because the entire thing is completely legal and free of loopholes. She has nothing. Darius--Darius Hernan lets be jealous for a while, because it’s a good heat in him. He huffs around the hotel room and Hernan kisses him each time he complains about Mariah and her ‘wack pussy’.

Said wack pussy gets sentenced to life and Darius is let out of witness protection. The day Hernan takes him to their new apartment, he fucks Darius like he did their last night in Seagate, except this time it doesn’t feel like a goodbye.

“What are you gonna do with the club?”

“Keep it.”

“Listen, nigga, you  _ know  _ what I mean--”

“Yeah,” Hernan chuckles. He grabs Darius’ chin, presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then laughs as Darius pulls him back in for a longer kiss.

“Promise me it’s just a nightclub.”

“It’s just a nightclub.”

Donovan sends back the official deed to Harlem’s Paradise with all signatures. Hernan and Darius visit it the same day; it’s like a ghost town all in itself, just without the window boards, and Hernan calls a crew. They clean the place out, and then Hernan hires a designer, a decorator, a manager. It’s really, truly his within three weeks.

And then he goes looking for a painting.

Hernan chooses a Kehinde Wiley he’d had his eye on since he saw it at the Brooklyn Museum in 2015 and hangs it opening night. It’s far from the last thing that needs to be done. Late in the afternoon, and Hernan is waiting for the rest of the liquor order, the chefs, and the new security unit. Darius is in the office with him--a custom suit making him an attractive distraction--and talking to Sugar on the phone.

“For the last time, this ain’t no shady shit; you want a real job, come work for us.”

Hernan looks up from the receipts he’s totaling--or, pretending to total; really he’s nursing his third glass of scotch and the numbers are starting to blur--and listens in.

“You’re a great driver, man, and even better security. No.  _ No _ , I’m asking you to head it. I’m not the muscle around here anymore. I’m just…” He trails off and mutes his line. Hernan can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Hey! Should I tell him I’m your bitch?”

“Darius!”

Darius doubles over laughing, and Hernan just stares at him, shaking his head and smiling wide.

“Alright, alright.” He unmutes the phone. “Sorry, boss needed something. Yeah. Alright. Be here in an hour. Thanks man.”

“He in?”

“He’s in.”

Bending his arms behind his head, Hernan leans back in his chair and breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, we really need him. No one will touch Sugar. And maybe he can convince some of the other guys to go straight.” He stretches his arms and shoulders, groans. “I helped run this place for two years. There have been  _ hitmen _ in this room. And I’ve never worried so much about a single night.”

Darius rubs his hands together, licks his lips, and saunters over to Hernan. He leans into the chair, hands braced on the arms. Hernan’s eyes are already half-lidden. He’s almost drunk; another few shots and he’ll be there, and he loves the feeling, warm and floating as his mouth is captured by Darius’. They kiss so long Hernan’s head starts swimming. He pulls away for breath. Darius sucks a mark into Hernan’s throat while Hernan breathes.

Hernan gets another kiss and thinks that’s going to be it. They have a lot to get done before the club opens--including, apparently, when Darius kneels down in front of Hernan’s chair and starts unbuckling Hernan’s belt--Hernan.

Hands on Hernan’s thighs, Darius practically moans, “I’ve been wanting to do this since this morning.”

Hernan hisses appreciatively when Darius mouths at his briefs and then pulls his cock out. Darius flattens his tongue and licks the length of him a few times before taking Hernan in his mouth, eyes locked on Hernan. Hernan’s only able to watch Darius until he swallows around his cock. His hand comes up to grasp at Hernan’s shirt at the same time, and Hernan throws his head back. He cries out more than once, hips stuttering, fingers pulling at Darius’ hair.

The noises Darius makes are obscene. Hernan wants to look down to see if he’s touching himself, wants desperately to watch if he is, but he can barely open his eyes. He grasps at the hand Darius still has on his chest.

When Hernan comes, he bites down on his palm to keep from screaming. His eyes water and his vision blurs. His post-orgasm thought is to tell Darius how unbelievably good he is at that, and he manages to quell it in favor of a quiet, “Damn.”

“Uh-huh.” Darius wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and smirks like he knows what Hernan is really thinking. Hernan realizes he does, realizes he could stop speaking tomorrow and Darius wouldn’t even falter.

Hernan’s chest swells suddenly and he blinks, looking at the clock. It’s close to six; they open in four hours. Sugar will be there in an hour, maybe less. Darius is looking for something to wipe his hand on and preparing to stand, but want burns low and deep in Hernan’s stomach, so when Darius stands, he does too. He unzips Darius’ pants so they slide to his ankles and then turns him so he’s facing the desk.

He’s not lazy about it; he keeps lube in his drawer for a reason. Hernan bends Darius over the desk and spreads him open with two fingers before fucking him with three. His other hand works Darius’ cock until he’s squirming beneath Hernan and absolutely begging to come. Hernan changes the angle of his hand so he hits Darius’ prostate every time, and it doesn’t take long. He collapses back into his chair and leaves Darius spread open in front of him.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’ll...” Hernan looks at his hands, covered in cum and sweat, “I’ll go get a towel or something.” He tucks himself back into his briefs and stands. Grabbing two towels from the bathroom, he washes his hands off and checks his pants before going back to help Darius.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Darius says when he comes back. Hernan’s grin falters.

“You didn’t like it?”

“No--I mean, yes, damn, I liked it  _ a lot _ .” He takes the towel from Hernan and beckons him closer for a kiss. It’s languid, the complete opposite of what just happened, and absolutely perfect. Hernan hums appreciatively. Darius goes back to cleaning himself off. “I meant that seriously. Tell me you woulda bent me over a desk and fucked me even while we was in Seagate.”

Hernan knows he wouldn’t have.

Sugar shows up on time, and he’s game once he’s convinced Hernan is Hernan now, not Shades. “We have a legitimate spot on the top,” Hernan says, and Sugar tells him he knows a good number of people who want that, too.

Everything else goes smoothly, and by 10 there’s a line down the block for Harlem’s Paradise. Hernan stands on the perch surveys the crowd below, and smiles. He knows Darius is behind him even before he slides up to Hernan’s side and snakes a hand around his waist. Hernan does his best not to flinch away, but still stiffens; he’s not used to loving Che so openly yet, no matter how much he wants to. Che starts to move his hand away.

“No, don’t.” Laying his hand over Darius’, Hernan turns his head into his neck and breathes him in. Darius is still for a moment before he tightens his grip on Hernan’s waist and hums. Hernan feels the sound in his chest.

Below them, the crowd cheers and sways to the music, and the lyrics drift up over the noise,

 

_ Open up this letter you ain't tryin' to read _

_ You've been blind to the subject, but not blind to me _

_ And I know that this margin ain't too small for me _

_ Not too real, not too much anymore, not enough _

_ And I know that we have asked for change _

_ Don't be scared to put the fears to shame _

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this was a fix-it for a lot of people. I have mixed feelings about Mariah but she did not deserve what she got. And I didn't like that end for Luke, either, so this was my solution. Just... happy. People are happy, and alive. I couldn't fathom anything else.
> 
> Oh! For anyone curious, the painting is 'Willem van Heythuysen' by Kehinde Wiley, who did Obama’s presidential portrait. You can look at it here: https://www.artsy.net/artwork/kehinde-wiley-willem-van-heythuysen
> 
> The song referenced is Jorja Smith's "I Am" which is technically from the Black Panther soundtrack but works perfectly here. Of course the entire series is titled from Kendrick Lamar's "Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst" so I guess k dot gets a shout out for inspiring me!
> 
> There's also a reference in here to the ShadyChe fic "All the Dirty Parts" by my sister, which you should absolutely read: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152792 . It's the one about clearing out the showers. You'll know it when you read it.


End file.
